04 MAN FROM UNCLE: The Return of RAGE Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: What happens to Napoleon and Illya when THRUSH succeeds in going back in time and killing Alexander Waverly? Read after THE TIME BEFORE NOW AFFAIR...this is a TWEAKED version of a previous story
1. Chapter 1

**THE RETURN OF R.A.G.E. AFFAIR**

Chapter 1

"…it's real"

**1964**

Del Floria's, a few short steps down from the busy sidewalk, in a significantly cleaner New York City, is the site of the singular secretive entrance to a relatively new top-secret organization: **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement.

A chauffeur-driven sedan, not quite a limousine yet not some modest mode of transportation, stopped in front of Del Floria's, so that the distinctly distinguished gentleman riding in its rear could climb out with his heavy briefcase of finest leather, which the man with the bushy eyebrows carried so cavalierly.

His name: Alexander Waverly. His top secret identification: Number 1, Section 1, newly elevated leader of U.N.C.L.E. His soon-to-be-altered future: Death.

"Excuse me, sir," said a grimy hobo, much more common some forty years hence than in 1964, "could you possibly spare a little change so I can buy a cup of coffee?"

Though the tramp in dirty, torn clothing, with befouled fedora and long, greasy hair purposely hiding one-half of his unseen face, seemed harmless enough in this far less dangerous sidewalk scene, such an assumption would prove to be deadly, as Mr. Waverly stopped to scoop out a handful of coins from his tailored suit's pocket.

"Certainly, my good man," said Mr. Waverly via his prim and proper British accent. "Always happy to help someone who might be down on his luck. Perhaps this is sufficient to purchase a bit of breakfast as well."

"You're too kind," said the transient with one hand extended for the change, while the other suddenly pulled a handgun not yet a part of this time-period: a police-issue Glock 9mm with silencer extension, as a half-scarred countenance was revealed to be none-other-than Darien Driscoll, future chieftain of THRUSH. "Time to die, Mr. Waverly."

"What…?" started the shocked bushy-browed bureaucratic head of U.N.C.L.E. even as two whispered shots hit Mr. Waverly square in the chest. "Uhnnn!"

Creating a serious twisting of the past in order to significantly alter all that was still to come from 1964 all the way forward into the first few years of the next century.

Even as Alexander Waverly fell face-first onto the sidewalk, directly in front of Del Floria's, Darien hurriedly removing the dirty Fedora, the ragged clothing, and the greasy wig.

Then, as per his pre-planned getaway, Darien leapt into a parked two-seater Thunderbird, in order to return to where he would return to his starting point forty years into the future, where he knew his past-time assassination of the newly-assigned U.N.C.L.E. head would ensure a much more powerful entity called ** T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity, as well as his own improved existence as a chieftain whose face was not scarred. And where such as he still ruled THRUSH with a proverbial iron fist that no longer had to have its scars hidden within a black leather glove.

Darien Driscoll would also find that the impact of his actions four decades earlier would have an equally life-altering action regarding two young U.N.C.L.E. agents essentially just starting out as, originally, two very successful operatives. Not to mention constant irritants to THRUSH, in general, and Darien, in particular.

And all because Darien Driscoll had the forethought to have two THRUSH HQs develop underground super-subatomic accelerators codenamed: R.A.G.E….**R**etro-temporal **A**nti-**G**amma **E**mitting unit.

Which the THRUSH chief had used to make an excruciatingly painful trip across four preceding decades…

"Hey, mister," said a citizen after happening upon the unmoving man lying facedown before Del Floria's, "you all right?"

Upon closer inspection, this Good Samaritan of a much more civilized New York City saw two bleeding-out wounds in the downed man's chest, causing him to shout out, "Hey! Somebody get help! This man's been shot!"

**2007**

Moments before Alexander Waverly's premature death at the hands of a present-day THRUSH chieftain…

Napoleon Solo, over-the-hill, but still suave and handsome, had just rolled away from the twenty-something woman with whom he'd had a late-night tryst in his elegantly decorated, exclusive New York City condominium's master bedroom.

"Well", he heaved with a smile, "looks like the exercise regimen I've been following really did increase my stamina."

Suddenly, just as his bedmate smiled in equal satisfaction and rolled toward the older, though still sexy, super-secret U.N.C.L.E. agent in order to lay her blonde-haired head on his gray-haired chest…

…Darien Driscoll killed Alexander Waverly, sending ripples through time which now saw…

…Napoleon Solo, a failed ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent, responsible for successfully killing Andrew Vulcan with a 9mm bullet through the forehead way back in 1964, but not until that THRUSH chieftain had managed to kill a lot more innocent individuals, including a beautiful lady, whose name escapes his alcohol-befuddled mind, that had been killed in his stead.

Napoleon never recovered from that first failure. Not fully. And it wasn't long before other failures as an U.N.C.L.E. operative became so numerous that his fellow agent and potential new friend, Illya Kuryakin, was killed on their very first mission affair as a team.

And now, long after the ex-agent's dismal dismissal from U.N.C.L.E.…

…an overweight, alcoholic, balding Napoleon Solo awoke, in a cold sweat, in his rundown and dirty brownstone apartment located in one of New York's seedier areas.

Awoke to seriously consider ending his useless life, again, with the Walther P38 he'd carried during his all-too-brief career as a field agent for U.N.C.L.E.

With badly shaking hands, Napoleon pressed the muzzle flush against his deeply lined forehead, with his thumb loitering deathly close to the trigger which, with very little pressure, would send a single 9mm Parabellum bullet through his brain in order to instantly end a lifetime filled with a too-soon-aborted vocation as a secret agent.

As had been the case countless times before, something deep down stopped the ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent from committing a suicidal act of penance.

"Still don't have the guts, do you, Solo?" Napoleon finally said to himself as, yet again, the fully loaded Walther P38 was set aside so that this alcoholic loser could cling to his laughable life a little longer. "One of these days, I will pull that trigger. Then…"

Even as the slightly obese and definitely balding ex-agent took another in an endless amount of mind-numbing gulps from the ever-present bedside bottle of cheap Jack Daniel's whiskey, his mind was suddenly filled with fleeting images of a pseudo-memory from a far different life.

One not destroyed by a guilt-ridden man from U.N.C.L.E. who'd had no wise old owl-like mentor named Alexander Waverly. One not devoid of the pride in one's self needed to rise to and remain a suave, always-handsome Napoleon Solo that, in truth, such as he had apparently been in some other time-period than the one he had lived.

"What the…?"

In the span of a few seconds, an entire alternate lifetime flashed before those once clear hazel eyes that held out a hope for a life as one of two extra-special agents of U.N.C.L.E.

That other being none-other-than…

"Illya!" said a teary-eyed Napoleon even as, immediately after, a frighteningly familiar half-scarred face danced across his mind's eye. "Darien…Driscoll…? I…I remember…R-A-G-E…THRUSH and…time-travel…it's real!"

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

**THE RETURN OF R.A.G.E. AFFAIR**

Chapter 2

"…I'm the guy who's gonna save my past…and my hair"

Having quickly donned a cheap off-the-rack suit that, because of a constant consumption of even cheaper alcohol, barely fit the protruding belly of the ex-agent of U.N.C.L.E….

Napoleon Solo, Walther P38 contained within the soft embrace of a leather shoulder-holster such as he had not worn beneath any suit's coat since a forced early-retirement from that top-secret organization still located in New York City and still behind and beneath Del Floria's, that no longer trendy tailor's shop.

"I should've realized this years ago," Napoleon chastised with a resurgence of self-worth and an undying desire to go up against THRUSH one last time. "I should've…remembered what could've been. What should've been."

Leaving the claustrophobic confines of his rundown apartment in order to follow pseudo-memories from a far different life...

"If I'm right about this," said Napoleon under his breath, while waving down taxis, "I can change it all. I can be what my whiskey-soaked dreams believed I could be. A successful, agent of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement. Along with Illya."

Allowing for a sudden surge of memories of what could have been over what was, Napoleon Solo made his way toward another brownstone, that was an upscale version of his own, wherein he knew, just knew!, THRUSH maintained a secret entry point to their New York City headquarters.

A situation that would've never developed in the timeline of Napoleon's pseudo-memories…

Where, from a far different present, THRUSH's subterranean HQ had a super-accelerator device which should make it possible for Napoleon Solo to go back to 1964 and save his past in order to correct his present.

Napoleon prepared to take out the flesh-and-blood obstacle dressed in the familiar jumpsuit-and-beret with a fully loaded MP7 A1 machinegun-capable assault weapon in hand…

Bak-cht! Bak-cht!

…though Napoleon had not kept either a silencer-extension or the carbine-conversion attachments since last he held official operative status, the Walther P38 still tended to stifle that double gunshot.

Then doing something Napoleon remembered from a previous past not stolen from him by a time-traveling THRUSH chieftain, the balding ex-agent dragged away the dead thug which, because of swiftly delivered head shots, contained no noticeable blood stains on said jumpsuit-and-beret.

Thus Napoleon stripped the corpse in order to don both beret and jumpsuit, then, slipping his U.N.C.L.E. handgun into one pocket, because he had to remove of cheap suit's coat and shoulder holster so the THRUSH jumpsuit would close at all.

Then Napoleon took possession of the MP7 A1 in order to potentially fit in as much as possible while skulking through the sub-levels some six hundred meters straight down.

Sucking in his gut whenever nearing underground corridors under constant micro-camera surveillance or whenever nearing similarly dressed and armed THRUSH thugs, Napoleon Solo quietly followed what existed in pseudo-memory until…

"Finally," heaved Napoleon as he slipped into the unsecured, unguarded door leading into a lead-glassed observation blister wherein a single smocked science-tech prepped super-advanced inter-linked control consoles that, according to recollections-that-never-were, originally required several science techs to operate.

As luck would have it, this was no ordinary science tech. This was…

"Dr. Sabastian Malachi," breathed a grinning Napoleon Solo, the previously pocketed Walther P38 leveled at someone pseudo-memory recalled being killed in a previously unaltered timeline in the subterranean THRUSH headquarters beneath the streets of London, England.

"Who are…?" began Dr. Malachi in bewilderment over someone his skewed timeline memory could not possibly recall.

"Let's just say," said a smirking, self-certain Napoleon, "I'm the guy whose gonna save my past…and my hair."

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

**THE RETURN OF R.A.G.E. AFFAIR**

Chapter 3/Conclusion

"Same old Napoleon…"

**1964**

Having forced Dr. Malachi, at gunpoint, to pre-program a much simpler retro-temporal device for the same point in a pre-skewed past where Alexander Waverly had been assassinated by Darien Driscoll, Napoleon Solo forcefully brought his U.N.C.L.E. handgun down hard against the back of the leading science-tech's head hard enough to render him unconscious if not concussed…

…Napoleon next endured an agonizingly painful dematerialization of his atomic structure via anti-energies which literally sent the overweight, balding ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent 43 years into what was…

…whereupon a significant amount of vomit became the inevitable end of re-materialization within a time-period that was the crux of what turned out to be a significant revision of U.N.C.L.E. history.

"If this works," swore a still-nauseated Napoleon after spitting out the last of whiskey-tasting puke, "I'm damn sure not going to drink cheap whiskey anymore."

Having, finally, reclaimed control of himself, Walther P38 again shoved into a jumpsuit pocket, Napoleon Solo stepped around the street's corner in order to keep the secretive entry point of the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ in sight until such time that Alexander Waverly needed to be saved from assassination at the hands of the half-scarred Darien Driscoll.

Just then, the Sixties sedan in which Alexander Waverly rode had pulled over to allow this recently-promoted British U.N.C.L.E. operative-turned-leader out even as, somewhere, a disguised Darien prepared to put his despicable plan in motion.

If only, Napoleon silently considered, I could explain to Mr. Waverly who I am and what was about to take place. But, if what I seem to somehow understand about 'time-travel' via R.A.G.E. is anywhere near accurate…to do so could alter the future just as seriously as this assassination.

Fortunately for Napoleon, his balding head fully visible since it seemed a little too distracting to have worn the beret back as well, the ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent didn't have long to wait as…

A greasy-haired, grimy bum approached the briefcase-carrying Alexander Waverly.

"That's him!" said Napoleon loudly, as every seemingly unused sense of heroism shifted into overdrive. "That's Driscoll!"

"Mr. Waverly!" shouted Napoleon as he rushed forward, pulling his pistol and subsequently causing both chieftains, one U.N.C.L.E. and one THRUSH, to turn toward him in palpable puzzlement. "Get down! He's going to kill you!"

Though Napoleon knew not whether it was the weapon in his hand or his shouted warning, Alexander Waverly never-the-less dropped to the pavement even as a disguised-as-a-bum Darien aimed his silencer-equipped Glock at the prone target…

Bak-cht! Bak-cht! Bak-cht!

…causing Napoleon to thrice fire his Walther P38 in the general direction of the assassin-from-the-future, immediately regretting not having kept up his pistol training as a trio of 9mm Parabellum bullets found no death-dealing points of impact, save for a superficial grazing of one of Darien's shoulder.

The superficially wounded THRUSH chief-from-2007 dashed for his parked two-seater Thunderbird in order to hurriedly reach a pre-planned destination whereupon he could return to the future. Just not the one for which he'd, quite literally, aimed.

"Damn!" swore Napoleon as he realized the THRUSH chieftain, half-scarred or not, would still exist in all potential futures.

Just as he turned to swiftly exit, as Alexander Waverly stood and brushed himself off…

"You there! Wait!"

Ignoring his once and future U.N.C.L.E. leader's proper British-accented shouts, Napoleon plowed headlong into a just-arrived-by-cab agent with dark hair, hazel eyes, handsome and slim as well as about to begin the first day of his illustrious life as a suave operative...

"S-sorry," stammered the old Napoleon Solo as the young Napoleon Solo couldn't help but wonder about the similar-looking, though much older, facial features as the jumpsuit-wearing slightly overweight, balding individual stumbled around the corner.

Shrugging it off as a trick of morning light combined with the lack of adequate caffeine, the younger Napoleon strode straight toward Del Floria's even as Alexander Waverly entered the little tailor shop's door in order to use the secret entrance into U.N.C.L.E.

**2007**

"No!"

"Anything wrong, Napoleon?"

After glancing around the elegance of his condominium's master bedroom, and quickly feeling for proof of remaining salt-and-pepper head hair, not to mention noting the lack of a fat abdomen and the presence of an exceptionally lovely lady lying next to him…

"Nothing, beautiful," said a suddenly smiling, still-virile Napoleon Solo while rolling toward her. "Just thought I was living a bad dream."

No sooner physically involved than Napoleon's cordless phone began ringing on the expensive night table next to the silk-covered bed, whereupon Napoleon promptly one-handed it into ringer off mode…

…leaving Illya Kuryakin, alive and well and in an upscale New York City condominium as well, just like his decades-old friend and fellow agent of the super-secret **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement…

"Same old Napoleon," said Illya into his own cordless phone, after the suddenly-activated outgoing voicemail message said, in Napoleon Solo's instantly recognizable self-important tone, that he was entertaining and would call back unless such turned into a romantic marathon. "Give me a call as soon as possible, my American friend…just because we're not currently on-call doesn't mean a mission affair might not be on the tip of Allison Hall's lovely tongue. Oh, and don't forget to take your, uh…blue 'vitamins'."

END


End file.
